The room smelled faintly of disinfectant and plastic. Daniel Carter noticed that before anything else. He had noticed it for weeks now. Hospitals always smelled the same, no matter the city or country. Clean, sterile, and somehow still wrong.
The machine beside his bed beeped at a steady rhythm.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Daniel stared at the ceiling. A thin crack ran from one corner to the other, almost like a frozen lightning bolt. He had memorized it by now. He counted it sometimes when sleep refused to come.
A nurse stood near the window, adjusting the blinds.
"Mr. Carter," she said gently, turning back toward him. "Can you hear me?"
Daniel shifted his head a little. It took effort. Everything did now.
"Yeah," he replied. His voice sounded distant, even to himself.
She smiled. Not a warm smile. Not a cold one either. Just professional. Kind in the way experience teaches.
"How's the pain?"
He considered lying. Then decided against it.
"It's there," he said. "But it's manageable."
She nodded and wrote something on the clipboard. "That's good. I'll let the doctor know you're awake."
When she left, the room fell quiet again. Only the machine. Only the ceiling. Only his breathing.
Daniel closed his eyes.
He had spent most of his life thinking about the past. About men who lived and died centuries ago. About wars, borders, betrayals, and ambition. He knew the names of cities that no longer existed. He knew which rulers had failed because they trusted the wrong people. He knew how fragile power really was.
And yet none of that mattered now.
He was thirty-eight years old. A historian. A lecturer. No family of his own. No legacy beyond lecture notes and papers that a few dozen people might remember.
He thought about the irony of it. All that knowledge. All that preparation. And nowhere to use it.
"If I'd been born earlier," he whispered, voice barely audible, "things would've been different."
The thought wasn't dramatic. It wasn't romantic. It was simple. Matter-of-fact.
In the modern world, everything was already claimed. Systems stacked on systems. Institutions older than any one person. No room for a single mind to bend history.
In another age, though…
The door opened quietly.
The doctor stepped inside, holding a tablet. He pulled a chair closer and sat.
"How are you feeling, Daniel?" he asked.
Daniel studied his face. No false hope there. No rehearsed optimism.
"How long do I have?" Daniel asked instead.
The doctor hesitated, just briefly. "Days," he said. "Maybe a week."
Daniel nodded. He had expected it.
"I don't want to be sedated at the end," Daniel said. "I want to be aware."
"We'll do what we can," the doctor replied. "To keep you comfortable."
"Good."
They sat in silence for a moment.
When the doctor left, the fatigue returned. Not sleep. Just heaviness. Like gravity had increased.
Daniel's thoughts drifted. To maps. To timelines. To names that had once changed the world.
Then the beeping slowed.
The ceiling blurred.
And the world slipped away.
Sound came first.
Low voices. Too many of them. Overlapping.
Daniel tried to open his eyes.
He couldn't.
His chest tightened.
I can't move.
Panic flared. Sudden. Sharp.
Something was wrapped tightly around him. Cloth. Rough. Too close.
He tried to speak.
A thin, unfamiliar sound came out instead.
A cry.
The voices sharpened.
"He's breathing."
"Barely."
"Careful—hold him properly."
The language wasn't English. He didn't understand the words, but the rhythm felt familiar in a distant, academic way.
This isn't right.
His eyes opened briefly. Light stabbed into them. Shapes swam above him—faces, hands, shadows moving quickly.
A woman leaned close, her voice tense. Another answered her.
Daniel tried to think clearly, but his thoughts slipped. The body he was in felt wrong. Too small. Too weak.
Someone touched his chest.
"He was almost gone," a voice said quietly.
Another replied with a soft murmur, something reverent, something old.
Daniel's breathing hitched.
I didn't wake up.
The realization came slowly. Reluctantly.
He wasn't in a hospital.
He wasn't in his body.
Fear followed, heavy and cold.
Time passed strangely. He drifted in and out. Each time he surfaced, there were hands. Voices. The smell of smoke and wool and earth.
Once, someone held him upright. Another brought a man forward. Older. Calm.
The man leaned close.
Daniel felt warm breath against his ear. Soft words were spoken. Not loud. Not rushed. Measured. Gentle. Ritualistic.
He didn't understand the language, but he understood the intent.
Then the man said something clearly.
"…your name is Aren."
The sound settled into him.
A name given, not chosen.
The man repeated it, closer to the other ear.
"Aren."
Something in Daniel stilled.
The crying faded. The panic eased, just slightly.
He didn't understand where he was. Or why. Or how.
But he understood one thing.
This life had begun.
And Daniel Carter, historian of a world long gone, closed his eyes inside a body barely clinging to breath—aware, frightened, and alive.
A/N:Hey Readers, if you like the opening for this novel, please give a collection.
And also for readability's sake I'm not going to use culturally accurate names but for the general political terms and other stuff, I'm going to use their real names.
Also I've studied history and strategy for a long time and also know a lot about it🧐.So I'm not creating this story out of my ass but instead according to the historical time period.
So please if you want this story to continue,support by giving a collection.